Short "stories"

This are a short "stories" I wrote for class
"That changes everything...."
His fear is rising in his spine and is transforming into small drops of sweat that escape his forehead at an increasing speed. His hands make a trip to his mouth and his nails encounter his teeth. They meet a bitter end as he bites them as if they are his favorite food and the world is running out of ingredients. You can see the skin now. He refuses to look at his hands. Seeing the remains of his once shiny, man manicured (as he calls it) nails made him more nervous. What other things will have to die? What other things does he have to give up now that life has played him such a mean trick? 
Granted, they are just nails and other people, not him, would be extremely excited that this happened to them. Not Hunter. Not at nineteen, when his life is at its peak and just beginning. Other people would be at stores shopping and planning for the big day. Not Hunter. Hunter was at home trying to balance his checkbook while promising the world to Jamie. Jamie so beautiful and fair like the way Shakespeare describes Juliet, a fair maiden with soft grey eyes and brown hair. Okay, Shakespeare didn’t describe her like that but what does he know about Shakespeare? Hunter is lost in his thoughts now. His hand is shaking so he returns it to his mouth.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor says stepping out of the room. “The C section went as planned. Come in to see your daughter.”
Her soft blonde hair, like her dad’s, and her grey eyes like her mom’s drown his fears into a pool of joy. No fear, no regrets. He is a dad now. And that changes everything.


"The Married Couple..."
Life wasn’t easy for the McLaren’s. George McLaren was the president of a large company his father founded. He was a trust fund baby or so they called him. His major duties involved delegating his responsibilities to the poor individuals with job positions less important than his. 
When he wasn’t dealing with tedious work related issues, like exploiting his employees, he was playing golf or hunting. Enjoy life to the fullest, living like you’ll die tomorrow sort of thing. He sounded like a cheap fortune cookie. The McLaren team, like George called it, was composed of two girls and two boys plus his wife. Mona McLaren was the definition of housewife or at least she tried her hardest to be. To Mona, life was about appearances, how others saw you and the amount of luxuries you had. Some said luxury others said overindulgence. No one understood the necessity to have a house with 12 bedrooms, 23 bathrooms and 10 kitchens. George understood that  the bigger the better. Bigger meant more successful, it meant happiness to himself and his family. For Mona it meant more space for her to clean her pain away. She would hide her resentment, her hatred for life and the empty feeling on the pit of her stomach in every surface she dusted, vacuumed and polished. She was a true housewife. Her resume said so. “I don’t need a maid”, she said, “I can do this on my own.” Every day for ten years, Mona painted on her face a fake smile full of pearly whites for everyone who came to her “humble” abode. The kids were oblivious of their mother’s unhappiness and the bitterness she harbored in her soul. They only opened their mouths to ask for what technology had decided to throw upon us that month. George was too busy with his 21 year old mistress to notice. He didn’t even noticed how his wife found out the day of their anniversary and how she pretended to ignore it. But Mona was a trophy wife she had a part to play. Mona cracked one day. As the blade hit and pierced through her veins full of life, she understood what she was giving away, a life full of pleasures. But she knew, yes she knew, they were just hiding the pain.